The first thing I did when I woke was jam my orange foam plugs into my ears.
I had bought them at a corner pharmacy on my way home yesterday, along with the kind of cheap, over-the-counter sleeping pills that promised oblivion but delivered only fog.
The silence lasted less than a heartbeat, then it all began again.
Trey is definitely cheating on me. He has been spending late nights and smiling at text messages all through the weekend. He'd better not let him catch him divorcing his worthless ass and taking my daughter out of this sh*t hole.
The thought wasn't mine, but it slithered through my skull with the same ease as my own. I sat up in bed, clawing the plugs out and throwing them across the room.
"Shut up," I hissed at no one.
As usual, the four walls of my room responded with silence. The world was waking, I could hear the sound of a bus honking, apartment doors slamming, the footsteps in the hallway of my building.
The hum of the city was layered with the voices of the multitude, intense poisonous whispers that only I could hear.
God, she's late again. I bet the boss only keeps her because of pity.
Rent's due. I'll need to gamble again, just one win this time, just one.
I hate him. I hate the way he breathes next to me.
I pressed my palms to my ears as if I could squeeze them out. My jaw ached from grinding my teeth in sleep.
The sleeping pills hadn't worked. The earplugs aren't working; The music I blasted last night from my cheap headphones only made my ear vibrate until they rang, it had not worked.
Nothing worked.
By the time I dragged myself into the kitchen for coffee, my stomach was turning from nausea rather than hunger. The coffee grounds spilled onto the counter as I tried to scoop them into the machine.
My hands shook so badly the scoop clattered onto the floor. I bent down to retrieve it and heard a new voice, close and intimate.
You're slipping, Elena. Just admit it. You're not normal. You never were.
I froze at the sudden realization that I wasn't hearing some stranger in the hall or a neighbor.
That was my own voice, echoing back at me as though my thoughts had fractured into a dozen rubbles, redirecting back to me, and tormenting me. I gripped the counter until the laminate cracked beneath my nails.
"No," I whispered. "No, I'm not crazy. This is… this is something else. I can control this. I can."
The coffee machine burbled, mocking me with its thin stream of liquid. I poured the cup too fast, spilling scalding drops onto my wrist. The pain grounded me for a second, and I welcomed it. At least it was mine. At least it was real.
But the relief didn't last.
The walls of my apartment seemed thinner now, like paper screens that couldn't keep the world out. Voices bled through: the landlord thinking about which tenant to harass for late rent, the woman across the hall reliving the smell of her lover's skin, a child downstairs praying her parents wouldn't fight tonight.
Each thought stabbed, raw, and unfiltered. No tone, no mask, no polite smile to soften them. Just the truth, laid bare, and I was drowning in it. By mid-morning, I'd taken multiple breaks to the firms' rooftop.
My nails kept finding my scalp, tousling my hair as if I could scrape out the noise. My fifth cup of coffee left forgotten at my cubicle, it didn't seem to be helping me focus. I'll lose my job if I snap. I'll lose myself.
Something just had to give.
So, I gave a random excuse to the manager, grabbed my coat, and stepped into the bite of winter air. The cold may numb me, so I wandered the streets for a while.
The street was crowded, and the voices came harder, faster, without mercy. I heard lust, greed, boredom, despair. People smiled into their phones, into each other's faces, while inside they seethed.
I wanted to scream at them, to strip away their masks and make them choke on their dishonesty.
Instead, I pushed forward, my breath clouding in front of me, trying to outpace the chamber of noise in my head.
By the time dusk fell, my nerves were raw. My apartment felt like a cage where every wall whispered. I couldn't sit still. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't pretend this was manageable.
So, I walked again. Now, the streets of Mondrovia were slick with melted snow, each puddle glimmering under the streetlights. My boots slapped against pavement, a steady rhythm that was almost soothing.
Almost.
She looks pathetic walking alone. Who'd want her?
Rent, rent, rent. If I can't pay, they'll evict me.
I should've married Marco, not this slob.
All of the thoughts coming from every passerby poured into my mind until I nearly staggered. I shoved my hands into my coat pockets, and my fingers curled up so tightly that my nails digging into my skin.
I had no idea where I was heading until the air shifted, becoming harder and colder.
I became aware that I had wandered towards the industrial area as the streets became narrower. An empty stretch. A dead end for most.
That's when I heard it.
Not spoken. Not shouted. An ugly whispered thought. Easy marks. That girl's bag, the guy's wallet. Quick slice, quick grab. No witnesses if they scream.
I halted. The thoughts I heard pulsed in my mind like a beacon, my eyes adjusted, and I saw them: a young couple, arms linked, cutting through a dim alley.
Behind them, a man lingered in shadow, hand sliding into his jacket where I caught the gleam of metal: A knife.
My heart thumped. My head screamed. I should run. I should call the police. I should look away.
But I couldn't; the couple's laughter drifted into the air, it was soft, oblivious, fragile. The man behind them grinned, his mind radiating hunger and cruelty. I stepped forward before I even realized.
"Hey." I called, my voice cut through the dark. The robber flinched and turned to face me. The couple looked back at us over their shoulders, confused.
With his knife flashing in the streetlight, the man said, "Walk away, sweetheart." "This isn't your problem." But his thoughts betrayed him. Stupid bitch. I'll gut her first, then the rest.
Something in me snapped.
Without thinking, I stepped forward and closed the distance. My hand reached out and clamped his wrist as he lunged, the knife slashing downwards.
The crunch of bone crumbling beneath my hands was the next sound. His scream split the night. The blade clanked against the paved floor.
The couple stumbled back, gasping. Their eyes were wide with fear rather than gratitude.
The look of horror on their face said it all; they viewed me as something worse than a rescuer. Someone unnatural.
The man collapsed at my feet, gripping his mangled wrist. He let out a scream filled with anguish and rage. "Monster", he screamed. "You broke my hand, you freak!"
My stomach dropped. I stumbled backward and let him go. The couple fled, their footsteps retreating fast, faster, as if running from me.
"No," I whispered, breath ragged. "I was trying to help." But the words were dull, even to myself. I looked down at my hands, at the fingers that had crushed a person's bone like twigs.
The same hands I used to type reports, to pour coffee, to hold the few people I had ever trusted. Now they were weapons.
I ran.
I didn't know where to, only away; away from the terrified eyes of the couple, away from the screams of the mugger.
Away from the fact that I wasn't a savior, I wasn't a victim. I have become something else.